


Flight

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Car Accidents, Desert, Driving, Gen, Surfing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scout, Demoman, and Sniper decide to go joyriding on a warm, sunny, desert day.  Sniper’s van is big, and wide, and goes fast.  So how about some Van Surfing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flight

**Author's Note:**

> “There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss. … Clearly, it is this second part, the missing, which presents the difficulties.” — Douglas Adams

Tears welled in Scout's eyes, sliding along his lower lids, catching upon lashes, clinging desperately against all hope. The winds, hot and stinging, ripped them from the young man, carrying them along their currents to the cracked, black asphalt below to sizzle away in the sun.

The sun, wrathful and furious, beat down on the lithe mercenary as he reveled in the light and the heat and the fierce wind in his face, unbridled speed intoxicating him as he squinted against the stinging air ramming into him at full force. His feet, clad in a pair of canvas sneakers very clearly not part of his uniform, were planted wide apart, his weight forward on his toes, hoping the rubber soles could grip the hot metal upon which he stood well enough to keep from slipping.

Ahead, the road stretched for miles and miles unending, distance and heat obscuring the hazy image of Teufort just off the horizon. Cracked, pitted, disused asphalt zoomed below, faded yellow and white lines tracing what once could have been, but probably never was, a road used for excavation vehicles going to and from the Badlands' famous gravel pits.

Scout had to go fast. His whole life, speed was his one true companion. Something he could cultivate, something he could rely on, something he depended on. He needed it. It was how he was able to get to the dinner table in time to have any portions for himself. It was how he was able to ensure a few good hits in fights. It was how he was able to earn his living. He couldn't slow down. He wouldn't slow down.

But sometimes, his feet weren't enough.

 

“I can't believe 'e's doin' it!” Sniper marveled, angling his driver's side mirror to see. One hand was firmly on the steering wheel, his other elbow seated out his window. The Hollies blared on his radio.

Demoman laughed, leaning out the passenger side's window to look back and up, a wide grin on his face. “The lad's a madman!”

Sniper's van sped down the ancient roads of the desert, disregarding any concept of speed limit or legality of seating arrangement. Perched atop the back of the rusted-out camper, Scout stood proud and daring, one foot forward, the other back, his body facing sideways as his face stared defiantly forward, his arms out to steady himself. His hat was turned backwards, his dog tags flapping in the wind. A wide, determined grin had insinuated its way between his lips.

“You're absolutely mad!” Demoman yelled up to his younger companion, laughing with exhilaration and disbelief.

“I'm absolutely awesome!” the American cried, bending a bit more at the knees as Sniper hit a small bump.

“A bloody surfer, 'e is,” Sniper laughed, giving Scout a thumbs-up out the window.

The rush made Scout's body buzz with energy and life. He lived his life as a coiled spring, a creature of boundless potential energy. The speed and the wind and the hot sun melted it all, let it course through his body like wax in a lava lamp, bubbling up and around and circling, making his arms and legs feel light as air and strong as steel.

 _Look through any window, what do you see?_ The Hollies asked, music curling out of the old van's surprisingly potent speakers. Notes caught on the wind as they exited the cab of the van, thrust through the air and past Scout's ears, trying their damnedest to cling to any measure they could against the whipping zephyrs assaulting him full-frontal. _See the drivers on the roads, pulling down their heavy loads._

Moving on their way, driving down the highways and the byways of an abandoned stretch of the desert, Sniper was finding the road surface in greater and greater disrepair as he drove. A pothole there, a bump here, a poorly-poured patch over there. It was, however, a sinkhole just after a small dip in the road that truly caught him by surprise.

The van grunted in agony at the sudden drop, a huge divot in the road surface that brought Sniper, Demoman, and several tons of steel to a dead stop as a single tire found itself half-deep in an open hole in the cracked, greying asphalt. Scout, however, did not come to a stop. Not right away.

 

The sensation of being in the air was not all that uncommon to Scout. He was capable of jumps no human should be able to perform. He knew what it was to push off of the ground and soar through the air, to rise and to fall, to feel that ephemeral beauty of defying gravity, only to have it snatch him back once again.

Man was not meant to know flight. Scout had always chafed at that idea.

At first, his body was not so aware of his predicament. His feet had left the burning metal of the van, surely, but he was still moving forward. Still speeding. The wind and the heat and the motion were all there.

Falling was almost a serene thing, truly. It was flight, with an unfortunate end. The blue sky and tan sands, the dark grey pavement and white clouds, the green and khaki of Sniper's van all blurred into a spiral, a kaleidoscope to Scout's wide eyes. He calmly realized what happened, what was happening. It was all very clear, even if his senses refused to process. He heard the wind whipping through his ears, the crunch of the van hitting the sinkhole, the cries of the men inside the van, and his own heart thumping loudly in his chest.

It was forever. Time had no meaning. His awareness was absolute, however numbed and stifled it truly was. His skin burned in the hot sun, gooseflesh rising despite itself, the electric energy of uncontrolled kinesis thrumming through his fingers and toes.

He thought of his mother.

She would give him such a whooping once she found out. Didn't matter he was a twenty-three year-old man. She would still grab him by the ear and drag him down to her level and crack him upside the head. She'd find out, too. That Spy boyfriend of hers had ways of finding out stuff he wasn't supposed to. Meant he was pretty good at his job, to be honest. So that was something.

 

The impact was sudden, and hard. The young man hit the sandy dirt of the desert floor hard, his momentum casting him back upward. Gravity argued back, tugging him down again, only to be parried once more before finally gaining control. Scout skidded to a halt in a heap of limbs and dirt, specks of red on the dry ground chronicling the sparring match between the two opposing forces. He groaned, trying to cough and finding his body in a position that disallowed such frivolities.

He decided it was a good place to stay. Maybe he'd stay there forever. It would be a nice summer home. Warm, lots of sun, dry heat. Close to the highway. Scenic gravel pits and all that.

 

“Bloody hell, the Doc's gonna kill us.” Sniper knelt over Scout, checking his pulse. Hearing the American grunt in recognition and pain, he recoiled. “'elp me get 'im to the van.”

“I can walk,” Scout groaned, untangling himself from himself and slowly climbing to his feet, visibly agonized.

“Lad, you need medical attention, let us 'elp ye.”

“I got it, I said!” Scout smirked, blood seeping from his gums. “Nothin' can slow me down.”


End file.
